The girl with the Knives
by PresidentsOfPanem
Summary: Here is the story of the 74th annual Hunger Games, through the eyes of Clove Carrow: The Girl who Played with Knives.
1. Prologue

The Girl With the Knives.

_Everyone in the Capitol and Districts know the story of the starcrossed lovers of district 12, Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark. How Peeta finally admitted his love for her in the 74th Annual Hunger Games, and protected her in the arena. How he watched and loved her from affar and how she owed him her life. They were loved by all of Panem. _

_How would you feel if you knew that the same happened with Clove and Cato, the District 2 Careers. The girl with the knives that never missed, and the boy who could chop you to a thousand pieces with a sword? How would you feel if you knew that Clove lived in the Community Home, that her mother had died of starvation and her father abandoned her to look after her brother by herself? How would you feel if you knew that, like Peeta saved Katniss in the arena, Clove saved Cato?_

_Here is the story of the 74th annual Hunger games that you thought you knew so well, through the eyes of Clove Carrow, The girl with the knives. _


	2. Chapter 1

It's ten minutes past midnight, and yet, I still don't want to leave the garden. It isn't the nicest place to be this late at night, but it's the safest. I won't be able to sleep. Who can on the night before the reaping? The reaping. In less that 12 hours a male and female tribute will be chosen to fight twenty-three other tributes to the death; Twenty-four go in, one comes out. How anyone can look forward to death is beyond me.

I select a neatly carved knife from a small pile laying by my feet, and hurl it to a near by tree, it splits the bark and lodges itself into the wood. A smile plays on my lips: despite the fact I could be on a train to the capitol, and my death, tomorrow. My only reassurance is that I am a Career. and I have been trained my whole life for this. Eight years in the academy, and now I can never miss with a knife, even if I try.

My mind is spinning as I think of what has happened from previous careers from my district: Pulled apart by Capitol muttations, mauled by Gamemaker-created fire and floors and, the worst to watch, being killed in their sleep by their own allies. Rule one of the arena: Trust no one.

A lot of the tributes from here are volunteers from the academy. They're arrogant, big-headed, and they think that the world revolves around them and them only. I hate them. No, I despise them. They're just walking into death.

Sometimes, though, the parents have made them this way. My parents were always the same. They always told me I was going to volunteer when I was seventeen, and that it was a huge honour to fight, and win in the games. I happen to disagree with them.

Everyone is gone now though. My mother and grandfather died in a gas leak at my house while my little brother and I were at the academy. If we weren't training for the games, we'd be dead too. And my father was shipped off to the capitol as a peacekeeper two years ago, leaving my brother and me in the Community Home. I was thirteen at the time. Now, finally, I am fifteen, and I am basically their legal guardian.

My brother is twelve tomorrow, which means that tomorrow will be his first time in the reaping. One entry in the huge glass ball. They are both as safe as you can get at the age of twelve, with the odds in their favour. I'm not in that much danger either. So many people in District 2 have their names in the bowls that it would be almost impossible for any of us to be picked. Almost. It sometimes happens. You see someone training hard in the academy one day, and then, they're gone to the Capitol to either die or win. Usually they win, seeing that most of them are lethal killers. But sometimes they die. The time when they are not a career, have not been trained, and they die in the first hour, like the tributes from the outer districts. Just another forgotten face in the neverending sea of tributes.

I look up at the bright moon and sigh to myself. Then, I gather up my knives, and go through the back door of the home. I learnt how to use knives to open up the door ages ago.

If my father hadn't gone to the Capitol, then maybe I'd have a chance at a better life. I would be living in a huge house in the center of the district. Not in a Community home, hidden in the mountains that serve as protection. I would have had someone that loved me, supported me, cared for me. Someone to look out for reassurance at the reaping tomorrow, instead of being the one having to give the reassurance. I wouldn't be the unwanted girl with the non-existant family who didn't want or care for her. I would be Clove Carrow: Future Career tribute and Victor of the Hunger Games. But now, I have no hope. It would never happen.

After I have returned the knives to the kitchen draw and slowly shut it, I sneak back upstairs, past the bedrooms, to the dorm I share with two other girls. They don't like me. Only because they are not Career's. And they never will be.

How it works in District two is that, when you turn four, you have to attend school. But, as a catch, you can sign up to the academt aged six, if your parents wanted you to be career-trained. The Academy teaches combat and survival skills. If you are a career then you have 3 days of training and 3 days of school per week. If you do not train, you have five days of school. My roommates parents died before they could sign up to the academy, so they will never be careers.

I feel sorry for them, really: throwing knives lets me vent my anger at the world, without having to say anything. I don't have to risk being heard by the peacekeepers, I don't have to risk being heard by anyone. I just hurl knives in all directions and it always manages to quash my anger somewhat. But, despite all the feeling sorry, my hate for them always blocks my sympathy for them.

I'm lucky today, though. Both are sound asleep, so I don't have to hear their insults. I don't know how they can do it.

I'm always hit with bouts of insomnia before the reaping. It just seems like every single time I close my eyes and with all my might try to sleep, the unthinkable pops into my head. But there's no use sitting up until morning, I'll be tired for the reaping. And, since it's mandatory, I don't have a choice. So I roll over, and try to sleep.

_It's the reaping, but I'm not watching it in first person, I'm watching it from above, as if I was a bird flying over the scene._

_Tallulah Frost, the district escord, a woman with icy blue hair and eyes to match, clicks over to the glass bowl in her heels, and pulls out a small slip of paper. She smooths out the shite and ready the chosen name outloud. _

_"Clove Carrow"_

_I see myself as the crowd around me parts, and I can hear snickers in the crowds, the held-in laughs of other girls. I step forwards and walk slowly onto the stage. when Tallulah asks for volunteers all you can hear is the sound of the wind. Silence. I don't care. No one likes me. _

_Tallulah trots over to the boys ball, and pulls out another, equally bright white slip of paper. _

_"Bracken Carrow." It takes me about ten seconds to realise what is going on. And then I see my little brothers face. My own expression matches his, both pairs of green eyes held open in pure terror. We stand together, shoulders touching, while Tallulah asks for volunteers. Again, nothing. Nothing but a sea of happy faces spreading throughout the crowd. I'd love to think they were just happy about being spared another year. But I know better. In reality, they will all enjoy watching me die. _

_Then the whole thing changes, and I'm me again. I must be dreaming. NowI'm standing on the stage with my brother as the emotions flood through me, threatening to register on my face. I refuse to let them see. I am not weak. I am a Career. I am going to get us through this no matter what. I scan the crowd again. One person. Just one Volunteer. _

_That's when I see him. Familiar bright blue eyes and spiky blonde hair. They stand out like nothing else in this entire scene. His is the only sad face among the hapiness. No, not sand; sympathetic. It shows clear on his face. Sympathy for me. And I, only I, know why._

_I sometimes think, that, if it hadn't happened, maybe life would have been better. But now. Everything changes. He is sad for us. Because I think he still feels like he owes me something. He doesn't: I've let it go, whatever happened that night. But I don't think he has. After all, you never forget the face of the person who was your last hope. And, to him, that lost hope, was me. _

I was thirteen at the time, my father had just left the become a peacekeeper, and Braken and I had been sent to the Community Home. We were depressed and mourning the loss of our father. He wasn't dead, but it wouldn't make much difference if he was.

I was outside in the garden, the only place of the home I like. We had been outside all day, and I had decided to stay out a little longer. When the mistress headed into the lounge room, I snuck into the kitchen for some knives and took them outside to the little tree around the back of the home. I sat there, aiming endless amounts of knives at the tree, standing up only to fetch them once they were all gone, then returning and doing it all over again. Just the same cycle over and over. It was dark when I heard it. A large growl from above me, somewhere in the mountains, and then, a distant scream for help. I don't know what made me do it. But I suddenly gathered up my knives and heading for the mountain path. I clambered over the wire fence that 'protects' us, and started up the winding path through the mountains, nearing ever closer to the cries and growls. I finally reached the scene. A boy, a few years older than me, maybe fifteen, weaponless, fighting a huge cougar with his bare hands. I recognised the boy from the academt, he was one of the arrogant career types. But now, he was helpless, and probably on his way to death. Acting against my brain, I picked up the sharpest knife and threw it straight at the cougar, just as it pounced on the boy. The knife hit it right in the chest, and it slumped to the ground just short of him. He looked in my direction, astounded, and I hid behind a huge boulder. But it was no use: he'd seen me. I took off down the mountain path, sprinting, just incase he tried to catch me up. But, when I heard no pounding footsteps beind me, I slowed and walked the rest of the way back. I managed to get to the Home just in time for the head to summon me back inside. I ran into the building, shoved the knives in the kitchen drawere as quickly as my hands would allow me, and flew into the dor. Then I slept soundly, wondering if the boy would see me differently now. He did.

The next day, while I was training in the academy, I noticed him. Surrounded by all of his arrogant friends, he was in te centre of a massive circle of 'friends'. I didn't look at him, I just carried on throwing knives into a dummy like nothing had happened. But I kept getting this feeling, this strange sensation: someone was watching me. I swivelled around, and found his eyes trained on me, curiosity plaguing his face. Then something snapped and his eyes widened: he recognised me then. I knew it. Everytime, he was back talking to his friends, laughing about something. But that feeling that someone was watching me was still there, even after hehad moved over to the other side of the training gym. And I knew it was him. It couldn't have been anyone else, because they all ignored me. He was the first and only one that didn't.

"Happy Hunger Games everyone!" shouts Tallulah Frost, "And may the odds be ever in your favour!" I am escorted into the justice building by a crowd of peacekeepers. But, as the door is about to close on me, shutting me off from my district, I see him again, alone, staring at me, his eyes saying one thing: thank you Clove. The door slams and I collapse, falling to the ground, one last though hitting me as a fall: I have to let go of the past. It is only he who cannot forget.


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2- Nothing can ever change.**

"Clove!" I can hear Brackens bouce, somewhere in the distance, "Wake up already!" I can feel myself falling, falling down, and not slowly.

I hit the floor with a tremendous thud and roll over onto my side. "Bracken?" I say, and I open my eyes. Surprisingly, I'm not on the floor of the justice building in a crumped heap, with my brother crying beside me because of a fate that has fallen upon us. I'm only in the dorm of the home. I obviously fell asleep after all. But now, I'm on the floor, with Bracken laughing at me. "Clove? are you okay?" says Bracken, his voice is frantic as he waves his arms around in a useless attempt to help me in some way. In any way. I squint at the light barging through the open window and haul myself to my feet.

"Yes, I'm fine, I'm totally fine." I say, smiling down at him. Not that I have to look down very much; I'm tall for my age. He grabs onto my arm, "good! I thought you were having a panic attack or something, I was going to get someone but I didn't want to leave you!"

"I was just dreaming, Bracken," I assure him, "I'm fine now, see.". He smiles a relieved smile. How he can smile on reaping day is beyond me.

I take out a pair of blue jeans from my closter, along with a white vest top and my usual brown zip-up hooded sweater that I usually wear everuwhere, then I shove my feet into my boots; leather ones, that can take me anywhere, and walk downstairs, Bracken following me.

Everyone is already at the kitchen table, eating away at a stack of pancakes. It must be a reaping day treat. We never get things like this on a normal day.

strolling in through the kitchen door, I announce "Morning!,". No one looks up, no one wishes me luck on reaping day. Silence. I take a mug from the cupboard and prepare myself and the head a cup of black coffee, adding an extra sugar to mine, even though I know we're not supposed to use too much because it is expensive. It isn't myt fault, I find coffee too bitter without sugar in it. The head has no sugar in hers. I don't know how she can drink it.

I leave the head's cup of coffee on the worktop and take my own into the garden, by the tree, sneaking a few knives on my way out.

Once out of the way of everyone, I set my coffee down on the mid-summer grass and slump at the bottom of my tree, facing the other one that serves as my target. I hurl a few knives into the wood. Hurling them and listening to the satisfying sound that tells me it hit it's target, as always. I stand up and retrieve them and repeat, like always. Even on this fateful day, my routine never changes.

I spend around about twenty minutes outside, until I am called back in. I hide the knives under a big rock and sprint back to the door. The head tells me to go into town to get the foor for the "after-reaping feast", where we celebrate the fact that we have been spared for another year.

I head back upstairs to the dorm to fetch my bad, and then head out of the front door, picking up some money on the way out. Then I'm on the street. The dark, lonesome street. Empty. the Capitol and peacekeepers are the only ones present, already beginning to set up the stage for the reaping. The square is quite nice on market days, with it's huge stone archway entrance and the walls with juttin bricks that the little kids like to climb over. Today, though, there are no children playing: every spot is occupied by the watchful eye of the peacekeepers.

I head past the square and into the shop streets. We go and get all of the food we're going to need and, finally, when I am happy with my haul, and trudge past the square and back up the hill to get home.

I am thanked and then told to go and prepare for the reaping. It's ten O'clock. The reaping is at eleven, giving me an hour to get my self and my brother ready.

"Clove?" Asks Bracken, "What do I wear for the reaping."

"Well," I begin "you're meant to wear something smart. Your best clothes. Don't worry, just wear something you think is nice."

"Oh, okay," he says, rushing down the hallway to get dressed. Two kids stare at me with equally dull, hazel eyes, thenm when they think I am out of earshot, they collapse into giggles that drift down the hall from their retreating backs. If only I could use them as targets rather than my tree, then I might get a kick out of training at the home. Kill two birds with one stone.

I walk over to my closet for the second time today, and select an outfit for myself. I find my own dress. It's the same one as last years: an emerald green, strappy one with gold buttons on the chest and a skirt that just reaches my knees. I find some shoes, too, and shove them on quickly.

I dress without acknowledging anything. The fright is hitting everyone now: everyone is completely different to this morning.

I go back to the nightstand, and open the second drawer, taking out my mothers golden, emerald-jewelled hair slide. It's the one of the only things I own of my mother's, the other is a locket, which I take from the drawer too. I put the locked round my neck. Then I notice them. Dog-eared and crumpled, looking like they have beenhaphazardly shoved into the drawer- which they have. But I still recognise them.

When it came into my first reaping, and father said my dress didn't suit me, I ran upstairs and angry strokes flew onto the page. I didn't even realise I had finished. I had drawn myself, throwing a knife, and a dummy with my fathers face. I was disgusted with myself, I screwed up the drawing and tore it to shreds, and I distranced myself from pen and paper. When father left, I came back to it. My last drawing was ages ago. One of a small figure, cutching half a dozen knives in her hand, arm poised to throw one of them into the heart of a cougar, while a boy with golden hair and bright blue eyes cowered before it.

Why does he have to come back to me again? It's reaping day, why do I have to be mentally stalked by a boy that I will never know the name of? Unless, of course, if he thanks me one day. I doubt it. He's a popular, future-victor type careerm and they don't know what the mening of thanks is.

I reach into my drawer and pull out the drawing. I fold it up into a small square and tuck it into my pocket, concealing it from view. I then find Bracken and take his hand, abandoning my last remaining piece of my mother on the bed.

Everyone runs downstairs to the head standing at the front, addressing us with solemnity, "Good luck today everyone. May the odds be ever in your favour and, hopefully, I will se you all for the feast.

Then the siren sounds, and we're all headed out of the door towards the square. Where the fate of our lives lies in the hands of the Capitol.


End file.
